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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254948">Then and Now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda'>rolypoly_panda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Anxiety, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt Number Five | The Boy, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Number Five | The Boy Gets A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy has PTSD, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 01, Starvation, Touch-Starved, angst king five hargreeves, dolores is fives wife confirmed by yours truly, well a hand hug but thats cool</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:29:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After living alone and in a wasteland for decades, Five has developed some rather...<i>interesting</i> traits. Traits to protect himself, to keep himself save above all else. His siblings pick up on them and try to teach him that he's got them behind his back, willing to help, to stop the apocalypse no matter what.</p><p>But unlearning forty-five years of survival mechanisms is harder than one would think...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dolores &amp; Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Number Five | The Boy &amp; Allison Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Ben Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Diego Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Luther Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) &amp; Everyone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>476</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All copyright content doesn't belong to me. All characters belong to Gerard Way and Netflix.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Back then, in the apocalypse, Five had found himself quickly growing desperate for touch. While he had always been considered the least physically affectionate of the Hargreeves siblings and, dare he say, the most <em> disgruntled by </em> touch in general, whilst in a wasteland, he almost missed the sensation. He hadn’t realized it, but his brothers and sisters were always touching him: after a job well done, they would pat him on his back, or after a particularly grueling day of training, they would ruffle his hair. But back then, in the apocalypse, touch was something so rare, so hard to come by that even his own hands had startled him on occasion, having completely forgotten what it had felt like to be touched. Something so normal, so everyday had swiftly become foreign to Five, and while he had almost <em>craved</em> it, nothing had ever satisfied him. In his decades in the apocalypse, Five had only gotten close to calming those nerves on two occasions.</p><p> </p><p>The first had been when he had buried his brothers and sister.</p><p> </p><p>Five had spent the early hours of the apocalypse crumpled on the ground, unable to cry any longer. He had rubbed his cheeks raw, smearing dust and grime over his skin. He had sobbed for the first time in a long time, cradling his arms to his chest and letting go until his body had ached and his thoughts had fuzzed over. And as the sun had set for his first night in solitude, only then had Five realized just how <em> alone </em> he was. His only family had been killed, and humanity had been wiped away, the debris of their lives smeared across the earth like a bug on a windshield. Five had curled over himself, grinding his teeth against the hollowness in his heart, the sensation leaving him nauseated and exhausted.</p><p> </p><p>He had been so utterly <em> alone </em> . And, at the time, back then, Five had realized that he would likely <em> die </em> alone if he couldn’t calculate the jump correctly for the trip back...</p><p> </p><p>Five had coughed up nothing but stomach acid and spit, then. He hadn’t been able to cry right, to grieve right, hell, he hadn’t even been able to <em> throw up </em> right. But, as he glanced over the corpses of his siblings, Five had known he hadn’t lost the ability to do them justice. Not yet. The world had ended, but he <em>would</em> save them. He had hauled himself to his feet and, in that moment, he had decided to bury them, because the last thing he had wanted was to stumble across their decaying, half-mutilated corpses whilst thinking of his calculations to get home. Seeing that would have been the end of his sanity, he had known.</p><p> </p><p>So Five had begun to dig.</p><p> </p><p>He had stumbled to a patch of ground that had been spared of debris and fire and had begun digging his heels into the dirt, kicking it free. Then he had dropped to his hands and knees and began clawing. And, once the desperation had dissipated, Five had found the tools to carve out the graves, taking his time, sparing his energy, keeping his head as level as he could. It had taken hours, but as the hollow orange light of sunrise had relit the carnage around him, Five had leaned back on his haunches, finished.</p><p> </p><p>Six graves, for six siblings.</p><p> </p><p>For the only people that had mattered in his life.</p><p> </p><p>It had taken all of his remaining composure to stand tall, to keep himself upright as he had made his way to the closest body he could find. Five had dropped before the corpse, shaking and wheezing around the ash and dust, and had looked his sibling’s corpse in the eyes. The body had stared back at Five, his eyes empty, exposed, a void that had made Five feel sick all over again. There had been nothing left to throw up, though, so Five had choked on saliva before willing himself to just <em> bury the damn body </em>, pushing forward and grabbing his sibling’s arm.</p><p> </p><p>The arm had long-since gone cold and was inhumanity rigid, yet it had still <em> felt </em> like flesh. Something in the back of his mind had told Five to run, to get away because he was touching a <em> corpse </em> but Five had tampered down that hindbrain reaction, instead breathing in deeply once, twice, and a third time before beginning to drag the body from underneath the rubble.</p><p> </p><p>The body had been heavy, and Five had been tired.</p><p> </p><p>But, as the sun had set for the second day, preparing itself for a third, Five had found himself staring down at four neatly-piled graves, each being marked. Though, he hadn’t been able to find two of his siblings. Five had figured they had been mutilated beyond recognition, or buried so deeply in a place that he would never be able to reach and, somehow, that had made him begin to cry all over again.</p><p> </p><p>For a long time, Five had wandered, collecting scraps, picking up the food he could find, forgetting how to talk because he had given up murmuring things to himself. He had craved touch, and voices, and the simple things like music, but as Five  rounded up on a year of isolation, he had realized that he had forgotten what music had sounded like. He had forgotten what voices had carried. He had forgotten touch. Something so basic, so inherent, so <em> human </em> had become nothing but an echo to him. And, in place of his heart, Five had felt a block of ice, cold and useless, take its place.</p><p> </p><p>Cold, and useless, just like a corpse.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he had met Dolores. His number two: Five's partner in crime and his only other close-call for contact.</p><p> </p><p>She had saved his life, back then. Five had been scavenging in a decaying building that had been on its last legs for months. A year ago, it had looked as if it were going to drop at any moment. And four months ago, Five had continued to put off searching it because, “it’ll fall soon, any day now…”</p><p> </p><p>And it had still stood, even a year-or-so later, mocking him as it had sagged sideways, practically begging gravity to put it out of its misery.</p><p> </p><p>So, Five had bit the bullet and dove in.</p><p> </p><p>There had been nothing substantial, save for a few pairs of jeans. Five had gone through clothes at a disproportionately fast rate, what with his uneven growth spurts and constant tearing and destroying them, so finding new clothes that hadn't been charred and had <em>actually </em>fit him had always been a bonus. Five had stuffed the jeans into his backpack and had made for the second floor, carefully taking one step at a time up the near-sideways staircase. The building had groaned at him, but Five had ignored it. He had pushed on, rummaging through the second, third, and fourth floors.</p><p> </p><p>On the fifth, the ground had given out.</p><p> </p><p>Five’s stomach had kicked up into his throat as the ground crumbled under his feet, sending him dropping. In a split second, he had known that he wasn’t going to be able to blink safely to the ground. In a split second, Five had realized he was going to break his legs and <em> die </em>, unable to set them, hemorrhaging blood until he passed out and, inevitably, passed away. But in that same split second, his backpack had snagged on something, clotheslining him with the bag straps but leaving him dangling, safe, only a few feet off the ground.</p><p> </p><p>He had looked up to see her hand holding his backpack’s handle, but only barely. Flipping around, Five had scrambled up, grabbing her arm and hauling himself up onto the fifth floor. At first, Five had thought it was another corpse that had been unlucky enough to be buried under a mountain of rubble. But then he had held her hand, and had felt the smooth chill of her skin, and Five had known that she was no corpse.</p><p> </p><p>Her name had been Dolores.</p><p> </p><p>That’s what she had told him, after he had spent days freeing her from her rubble confines. He had thanked her, had begged her to come with him, and she had agreed. After being saved by her, Five had never wanted to let her go. He had stolen touches here and there, growing used to her feeling, her skin, her body, and Dolores hadn’t minded. She had never judged him, and had never ridiculed him for needing his space. And she had never bothered him, and had only talked when she had felt he was in the right frame of mind. Their touches hadn’t been necessary, but they had felt normal. Five hadn’t even been able to <em> fathom </em> holding a warm hand after meeting her.</p><p> </p><p>So he had stayed with Dolores. And it had been beautiful and simple. Five had cherished their relationship as it was from the day they had met. He hadn’t wanted to live a day without her, back then.</p><p> </p><p>So now, as he sat at Reginald’s bar sipping his piña colada, with Vanya hovering somewhere behind him, her eyes boring into his back, Five wanted nothing more than to see his wife. Because as much as Vanya meant well, she was no Dolores. Vanya judged him, and thought things about him and, sure, Dolores had her opinions as well but she had always been gentle with him, ever since day one. Dolores had never asked him questions, had never interrogated him. Meanwhile, Vanya looked as if she were going to pop out of her skin she was so curious, so <em> itchy </em> to say something.</p><p> </p><p>She fidgeted on the sofa, feigning reading some random book she had plucked off the shelf. He stared at her in the reflection of his glass, watching her eyes peek over the edge of the book before dipping down again. It was as if she had forgotten he was one of the best assassins in time…</p><p> </p><p>Vanya peeked, again, then hung her head, then peeked, then hung, repeating again, and again, and Five felt his patience wearing thin. He sucked in a breath. In the glass’ reflection, Vanya raised her head once more.</p><p> </p><p>Five whipped around on the stool. “<em>What,</em> Vanya?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Oh </em> , uh,” Vanya’s cheeks grew pink. She lowered her book. “Nothing. <em> Well </em> , I mean, it’s nothing <em> to you </em> but I…” Her voice trailed off. Five’s eyebrows snapped up. Vanya mumbled, “You’re...It’s just that you’re <em> really </em> tense. And so I…” She broke off again.</p><p> </p><p>Five took a long sip of his fruity drink, relishing in the sour burn of the alcohol he had added, knowing fully well that there was <em> no way </em> he wanted to be sober for this conversation. </p><p> </p><p>Vanya continued, meek as ever, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out. It’s just that...you’ve been working so hard with this whole end-of-the-world stuff, and so--...I don’t know, do you want a...a massage? Or something?”</p><p> </p><p>“A <em> what? </em>” Five blinked comically slow at her.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know!” Vanya tossed her book aside, throwing her hands up. “I-I’m just trying to be nice! Because you’ve got the most stiff posture I’ve ever <em> seen </em> and it looks <em> painful </em>so I thought I’d just offer or something. I don’t know. I'm not any good at this either, Five.” She stood up, sighing. Five tensed. “I just want to help. That’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>Vanya inched closer. Five leaned back. His toes curled in his shoes, his fingers gripping tight to his drink. He could feel his mind going blank as his senses braced for her touch, for the overstimulation of heat and sensation and something <em> disgusting </em> that he hadn’t felt in decades.</p><p> </p><p>“Five, are you okay--?” Vanya reached out. He jerked back, nearly spilling his drink. Five slammed it to the countertop, cursing, as Vanya stammered out, “I-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just--”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t <em>scare</em> me.” Five’s voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. “Just…” He sighed heavily.</p><p> </p><p>The silence drew out uncomfortably so.</p><p> </p><p>Vanya whispered, “‘Just’ what, Five?” She took another step closer, fingers outstretched to take his hand from where it rested against his knee.</p><p> </p><p>Five blinked across the room.</p><p> </p><p>The alcohol left him fuzzy and warm and his tongue felt all too loose - because <em> curse </em> having a <em> child’s </em> drinking tolerance - as he spat out, “Just back off , Vanya! <em> Okay? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t be touched by her. Not by any of them. Because the last time someone had touched him, it was Dolores’ hand. And Five knew her hand. He recognized her feeling, her divots and dents and plastic smoothness. But theirs? Theirs was foreign, and hot, and sweaty, and slimy, and Five felt his chest tighten a bit at the mere <em> thought </em> of being <em> touched </em> by her. He couldn’t let them touch him because the last time that had happened, he had been alone, abandoned in the future, dragging their <em> bodies </em> across <em> -- </em></p><p> </p><p>Five’s breath caught.</p><p> </p><p>The memory came and went, snapping out of his mind and throwing a blank, black wall in its place. Vanya was talking to him, approaching him, her voice soft and eyes sweetened with concern but he couldn’t make sense of what was being said to him. Her voice filtered through him but it ran clear, as useless and tasteless as water. Five mumbled, “Stop...” He put a hand up between them and stepped away until his back hit the sliding doors. Vanya stopped walking towards him, as demanded, but her expression never smoothed out. She looked as if she were going to cry with worry.</p><p> </p><p>Gingerly, she said, “I just want to help, Five. Are you okay? How can I help?”</p><p> </p><p>But that was just it, wasn’t it? Five didn’t <em> need </em> help. He was <em> fine. </em></p><p> </p><p>Decades ago, he had read something that had stuck with him. It was a self-help psychology book published by some unimportant author, talking about 'manifestation'. It had told him that “a manifestation is where your thoughts and your energy can create your reality.” It was a silly principle, at the time, but somehow it had stuck with Five. And even now, he had believed it, in a sense. He had told himself that he would get home, and he did. He had told himself that he would survive, and he did. He had told himself that he would stop the apocalypse, and he would. And he had told himself that he was <em> fine </em> , and goddamnit, he <em> was </em>.</p><p> </p><p>He was fine.</p><p> </p><p>Five had to be…</p><p> </p><p>Because he had to save the world. <em>He</em> had to stop the apocalypse. His whimpering siblings couldn’t do much to help save for getting in his way with useless things like feelings and trauma talks and “we’ll stop the apocalypse, Five, I promise”--</p><p> </p><p>Could they?</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t trust them to help. He trusted them to screw it up. Because he had <em>always</em> been alone and if solidarity created one thing, it was a burning passion for independence.</p><p> </p><p>Vanya said something to him. “What?” Five repeated again, tongue numb. He was staring at Vanya, who had gotten close, <em> so </em> close, <em> too </em> close, enough to touch him if she so much as lifted her hand a few inches. Her head was cocked to the side, searching for his eyes under his mess of fringe.</p><p> </p><p>She asked, softly, “Five? Are you with me again?”</p><p> </p><p>“I never left…” Five mumbled under his breath. Even he wasn't sure he believed that.</p><p> </p><p>Vanya hummed. “You...zoned out for a second there. You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Had he not told her? Five could have sworn that he had told her he was fine when she first asked if he was okay, if he needed help. When did she ask that? Seconds ago? Minutes ago?</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe we should sit down…” Vanya’s fingers brushed his wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Lightning sparked up his arm. Something in him made him want to scream, to shrink away, to run and Five suddenly blinked without thought, stumbling out of his teleport a few feet away with a muffled gasp. He whipped around, trying to reorient himself, to find Vanya. He clipped his hip on the sofa and nearly slammed his hand against the nearby pillar.</p><p> </p><p>“Five! Hey! Five!” Vanya caught up to him. "Calm down a second."</p><p> </p><p>Five snarled, “<em> Back off! </em>”</p><p> </p><p>She kept her hands to herself this time, clasped in front of her. “Please! I just want to--”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> need </em> your <em> help </em> , Vanya. I need you to get off my ass!” Five’s pulse thrummed in his ears. He felt his body go hot, felt his muscles tense and shake as he spat, “Christ, Vanya, of the few things you can do right, I would have thought <em> listening  </em> to simple instruction was one of them!” Five aimed his words for the kill, nipping at her throat. He stomped closer, getting in her face, grinding out, “You’re not <em> that </em> stupid, Vanya. I <em> know </em> you know what ‘alone’ means. It was your specialty for <em> years! </em> So leave me <em> alone! </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Vanya was crying. Or, she looked as if she were about to.</p><p> </p><p>Five’s stomach squeezed. He swallowed back his surprise.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't meant that. Right?</p><p> </p><p>But if he showed weakness to her now, it would all be for naught. Because Five <em> wanted </em> to be alone. He <em> needed  </em>to want to be alone. It would be detrimental to remember the sensation of touch, and if he got close to any of them, they would touch him - small taps, here and there, they couldn’t help it - and if he was touched, then he’d remember it all.</p><p> </p><p>Every single hour.</p><p> </p><p>Every single <em> second </em> that he was alone.</p><p> </p><p>Never feeling a hug. Never getting held. Never sharing the small taps, the feather-light touches, the hair-ruffling, and the shoulder clapping ever again...</p><p> </p><p>Just like Vanya.</p><p> </p><p>Alone.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, time, ironically, stood still for him. He didn’t play with it, didn’t toy with its settings. It stayed perfectly still, all on its own, letting Five etch her tear-glassy eyes into his mind, letting him record her deep, weakened inhale as her shoulders sagged and her body seemed to deflate, giving up. He watched it happen in slow-motion. Five ground his teeth. Guilt strangled him from the inside out, expanding inside his throat until he felt as if it would burst.</p><p> </p><p>The moment it did, time came back, faster than ever.</p><p> </p><p>Vany spun on her heel, her hair smacking her tear-streaked cheeks as she made for the door.</p><p> </p><p>Five lashed out in a desperate attempt to quell the pain, the hurt, the <em>guilt. </em>He reached out and grabbed hold of the first thing he touched:</p><p> </p><p>Her hand.</p><p> </p><p>Or, her fingers. He misjudged the distance, miscalculated his own limb-locking anxiety that swelled under his chest and, instead, held impossibly tight to her fingertips, just below the knuckles. They were warm, and soft, and rigid in small spots with abrasions and scars and callouses from her decades of violin playing. Some of her skin folded under his grasp, and her fingernails cut into his palm, but he held tight regardless.</p><p> </p><p>Vanya was the one he had never found, back in the apocalypse. </p><p> </p><p>Five had found Ben in a book written by Vanya, detailing his death in shallow but agonizing detail. And he had found Allison, and Klaus, and Diego, and Luther, all four of them buried safely in the future in their pathetically marked graves. But Vanya had been missing. He had never found her, no matter how long and hard he had searched.</p><p> </p><p>Something about holding <em> her </em> hand - <em> hers </em> first before anyone else’s - felt fitting. Maybe, if he had held onto her tight enough, he would find her the second time around. Maybe, if he had kept her close, he would be able to bury her along with the rest of them, never leaving her alone again. He clung to her, without even realizing it, his breathing slowing down and his thoughts catching up and leaving him reeling, and when he looked up, he half-expected Vanya to be mad. He <em> wanted </em> her to be mad, because Five knew how to fight anger. He understood it. It made sense.</p><p> </p><p>But in her eyes, all he saw was warmth.</p><p> </p><p>She turned to face him, keeping her hand still and between them from where he held her fingers tightly. Five worked his face into neutrality, forced his emotions to subside, to just <em> leave </em> for two seconds so he could think without remembering the ash and the dust and the debris and the <em> death </em>--</p><p> </p><p>“Five?” Vanya’s lips curved into a sweet smile. "It’s okay. I promise. I’m...I know you were just...scared. When you said those things.”</p><p> </p><p><em> He wasn’t scared </em> , he wanted to say. <em> She’s wrong </em>, he told himself.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he muttered, “Sorry.” Five was zoning out. He felt oddly weightless, his mind peeling away from his body, as if trying to get away from Vanya’s touch. Only <em> he </em> was holding <em> her </em>hand, not the other way around. It was his doing and, yet, he couldn’t make himself let go…</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to sit down?” she asked.</p><p> </p><p>Five said, “No.” Because what if she let go? What if he never found her again?</p><p> </p><p>Vanya’s voice filtered through his thoughts, “Do you want to talk about anything?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” He squeezed her hand tighter on instinct. He imagined it hurt: the hands of an assassin were never soft, never smooth, nothing like her own. Even if he had been thrown backwards into his thirteen-year-old self’s body, the muscle memory was still there. The intention to pin down, to stop, to kill <em> quietly </em> and <em> effectively </em> and <em> without struggle </em> was <em>right there</em>--</p><p> </p><p>“Can I talk, then?” Vanya asked.</p><p> </p><p>Five didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. His tongue was too heavy, to awkward to move. He nodded once instead.</p><p> </p><p>“I missed you." she began. "We <em> all </em> missed you. You know that, right?” It was rhetorical. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I left sandwiches out every night, waiting for you to come back. And...God, I remember those first nights were…” She blinked up at the two-story high ceiling above them. A beat of calming silence passed. When she dropped her chin again, she sighed. “I’m glad you’re home. And I know that you say that you’re fine--”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> am </em>--” Five made to protest.</p><p> </p><p>She cut him off, continuing, “And I believe you. I believe that you’re fine. But ‘fine’ isn’t ‘great’, and you can be ‘fine’ and still go through really tough things. That's something my therapist taught me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well,” Five’s voice cracked a bit. Whether it was from hormones or emotions, he couldn’t tell. “People go through shit every day. There's nothing new there.”</p><p> </p><p>Vanya offered him a sad smile. Five looked down at their shoes. He was still holding tight to her fingers when Vanya glanced down, too. Her free hand danced at her side for a second before she raised it, letting it hover over Five’s enclosed fingers. “Can I?” she asked.</p><p> </p><p>Five rolled his eyes. The gesture held no heat. “You don’t have to ask…”</p><p> </p><p>“I want to.” Vanya said. She lowered her hand, then, letting it rest gently over his. “I feel like I should, as the big sister, here.”</p><p> </p><p>Feeling her hand over his was an odd sensation.</p><p> </p><p>In all his decades of isolation, Five had always been the one to make the touches. <em> He </em> had held onto his siblings’ corpses as he dragged them to their graves. <em> He </em> had brushed his fingers over Dolores’ arm and neck and hand. But Vanya…</p><p> </p><p>Her thumb skirted over the back of his hand, over the bone jutting out a bit from his too-skinny wrist. Five watched her motion, fixated on the sensation, on the warmth that pulsated from her fingertips and palm and flooded into his own body, bringing a solid sense of security, of peace to him. It was so foreign that, for a second, Five couldn’t determine whether it was a good feeling or a bad feeling.</p><p> </p><p>Five remembered, then, what her previous sentence was. He mumbled out, still eyeing their hands, “I’m older than you. <em>I'm</em> the older brother, here."</p><p> </p><p>Vanya huffed a giggle. “I know, I was just messing with you." He scoffed, turning away to hide his smirk. Vanya said, "The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Five. I just want you happy. Here, and happy.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughed bitterly under his breath. “Yeah, well, happiness isn’t exactly my goal here, Vanya. I have to save the world.”</p><p> </p><p>“That may not be <em>your</em> goal, but it <em> is </em> mine.” There wasn’t a moment of hesitation in her voice. Vanya shook the hair from her face, not bothering to remove her hands. Five felt a cool relief flood his chest, relaxing his body as he took a deep breath. Vanya smiled and said, “Contrary to popular belief, I actually <em> do </em> like you guys…”</p><p> </p><p>The coolness became warmth, something calming, yet fiery like passion, and Five couldn’t keep his lips from quirking up. After a beat, he let his hand slide from Vanya’s, resting back at his side. Five said, in a voice as soft as hers, “I know."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! I'll upload the next chapter...eventually.</p><p>Also, <i>please</i> do let me know if this is OOC. I'm...still not confident in my voice for Five, in particular. Usually, I'm writing the traumatic characters who make jokes in order to brush off their pain, but writing a character that uses hostility and is quiet in their suffering is...not my norm. So, any tips you can give me would be great.</p><p>Oh, and that manifestation thing I snagged from <a href="https://www.thelawofattraction.com/manifest-something-want-24hrs-less/">this</a> so, if you want it, there it is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All copyright content doesn't belong to me. All characters belong to Gerard Way and Netflix.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Back then, in the apocalypse, Five had only gotten food poisoning a handful of times. Though the incidents had been few and far between, they were viscous, and had cost him precious materials. What scavenging time he had lost was doubled down upon as soon as he could walk, but what food and water he had vomited up had subsequently been just that: vomit. On the ground. Disgusting and acrid. And as much as he needed those lost goods, Five couldn't force rain to come, nor could he will food to be around the corner.</p><p> </p><p>Food poisoning had always been dreadful to deal with, and the first instance had been the worst simply because it had been so unexpected.</p><p> </p><p>The culprit had been a twinkie, of all things. </p><p> </p><p>Five had found it whilst searching through a dilapidated Walmart, one that had been half-caved in and on its last legs, like most things were. He had found an individual, still wrapped and relatively in-tact, sitting on a high shelf just below his line of sight. It had been pure chance that he had stumbled upon it: Five had been on his tip toes, parading down the aisle when he had spotted it. If he hadn't been fucking around, he doubted he would have seen it at all.</p><p> </p><p>At the time, the yellow bastard had been a welcomed sight.</p><p> </p><p>Five had rarely gotten to eat one in the past, before he had jumped. The snacks had been chocked full of ingredients their father hadn't approved of, and while Five's diet required a high caloric intake - hence marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches - Reginald had never approved of most junk foods. Chips, cookies, cakes, and the like had been banned from the academy indefinitely. That had never stopped them from sneaking out, but it <em>had</em> put a damper on the day.</p><p> </p><p>So as Five stared down the twinkie, he had figured, why not? Reginald was dead. <em> Everyone </em> was dead. And he could die any day from starvation or thirst or the elements or even a simple infection in a thin cut. The chances of him getting home had been slim from the beginning, and the chances of him getting home unscathed had been even more so. So, why not?</p><p> </p><p>Five had peeled the twinkie off the shelf to investigate.</p><p> </p><p>The fact that Five had to <em> peel </em> it from where it sat should have been warning enough, but he was stupid, sixteen, and starving. He had pushed his initial disgust to the back of his brain as he cracked the plastic seal and pulled back the edges.</p><p> </p><p>It had felt slimy, at first.</p><p> </p><p>The sponge had been soaked through by the cream, leaving it a darkened brown color rather than it's natural comically yellow shade. Something was oozing out of the bottom and spattering to the floor, but Five had figured it was the filling. Filling that had simply lost its structure over the years. He had repeated to himself, "it's fine, it's fine" regardless of the fear warbling in the back of his mind because he had been <em> so damn hungry.</em></p><p> </p><p>Days had passed since he had last eaten. Desperation had been clawing at his hollowed stomach, begging him to just <em> eat </em>. Eat, and he could deal with the aftermath once it came. Eat, and everything would be okay again. At that age, Five hadn't yet developed his constitution of fasting for a week straight, nor had he found the benefits of alcohol, and so, without any further doubt in his mind, Five popped the twinkie into his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>In hindsight, not having to chew the snack should have been concerning.</p><p> </p><p>The twinkie skated over his teeth once before it dissolved in his mouth, leaving behind a gooey puddle of sugar and dyes and something so incredibly sour that Five wasn't even sure he could swallow it without gagging.  He choked it down, sputtering at the taste, reeling from the unsettling churn of his gut. The aftertaste of mold chased the twinkie. His stomach flopped.</p><p> </p><p>Only hours after the fact had Five regretted his decision.</p><p> </p><p>He should have waited, he had known. Five should have waited and found more bugs or sprouting plants that he could char over a fire. That realization had become a mantra in his head, a constant, “I told you so, I told you so, <em> I told you so </em> ” that sounded more and more like his father the more and more he said it. He had repeated over and over and <em> over </em> as he alternated between clinging to Dolores and curling on his side to vomit up the bastardous twinkie from earlier. It had made its reappearance the first time he had thrown up, but that hadn’t stopped his stomach from expelling everything else, too.</p><p> </p><p>Water.</p><p> </p><p>More food.</p><p> </p><p>Stomach acid.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever Five had, his stomach had tossed.</p><p> </p><p>And as the sun set an unknown amount of hours later, Five had rolled onto his back, breathless and shaking with a cold sweat as he vowed to himself that he would never touch another twinkie again.</p><p> </p><p>The twinkie incident’s resulting paranoia had bled to other foods, thought.</p><p> </p><p>After forty-five years in the apocalypse, Five had found himself shying away from most edible things: most plants could hold toxins, meats were a rotting rarity, packaged goods were at risk of molds, and everything that had seemed safe could always be hiding something under the surface.</p><p> </p><p>There was <em> always </em> something under the surface…</p><p> </p><p>So now, as Five stood in front of the fridge, his eyes flicking to the scarce perishables stored on random shelves, he found himself becoming more and more disgusted by what he saw. He went through a checklist of each item, carefully sorting what was worth his effort and what was simply a waste of time.</p><p> </p><p>Jam with preserves? Check expiration date, check for mold, check for insects. Risk potential: high. Calories sustained: low.</p><p> </p><p>Deli honey ham? Check expiration date, check for mold, check for slime, check for unnatural discoloration, check for maggots. Risk potential: high. Calories sustained: medium.</p><p> </p><p>One brioche burger bun? Check expiration date, check for mold, check for spores, check for insects, check for…</p><p> </p><p>No. That thing already wasn't worth it. Five had avoided carbs even after being found by the Commission. The risk was far too great for breads, specifically, as they would go bad so quickly that, in the apocalypse, Five had usually found their fuzzy remains stuffed in a plastic bag. He had never trusted carbohydrates to keep him alive. Why start now?</p><p> </p><p>Five leaned further into the fridge. Crammed in the door was the peanut butter he had used only days prior.</p><p> </p><p>He leaned away, sagging at the realization that it had only been <em> days </em> since he had arrived. Days since he had broken his contract with the commission. Days since he had butchered his own time jump, trapping himself in a calorie-greedy little cage that nobody took seriously. Days since he had come home to save the world.</p><p> </p><p>The apocalypse was coming...</p><p> </p><p>What was he <em>doing?</em></p><p> </p><p>Five didn't have <em>time</em> for food.</p><p> </p><p>He reeled back and slammed the refrigerator door shut.</p><p> </p><p>"Five?"</p><p> </p><p>Five whipped around.</p><p> </p><p>A sleep-starved Allison, with her unkempt curls and bruised eyes, waved her fingers at him. She looked as exhausted as he felt, and he sighed, forcing himself to relax. It was just Allison. Just his sister. That was all.</p><p> </p><p>The apocalypse had left him paranoid, it seemed. Or perhaps that was the Handler's doing...</p><p> </p><p>But as she slipped into the kitchen at a leisurely shuffle, Five found himself growing more and more tense by the moment. Because why, of all his siblings, was <em> Allison </em>awake? Vanya had insomnia, and Diego played good-cop-bad-cop all night long, so they had passed his check. But Allison?</p><p> </p><p>Allison was a mother. She was a celebrity. Awake at seven and asleep by nine, Allison had always been the most levelheaded of them all, Five had known. And someone who was levelheaded was not what Allison was doing at nearly three in the morning: slinking around in the darkness, skirting around Five as if he were some witness to a murder rather than her own goddamn brother.</p><p> </p><p>She eyed him slowly, blinking even slower. Her fingers found the tap but her gaze stayed fixed on him. As soon as she had finished filling up a glass of water, Allison propped herself against the counter and asked, "Why are you awake?"</p><p> </p><p>If she was trying to be casual, Five had gotten the exact <em>opposite </em>from her body language. Her words had been soft but their tone was accusatory. Her walk had been leisurely but her step had been heavy and too fast. Her movement spelled curiosity, but Five knew damn well that she wasn't just curious...</p><p> </p><p>She wanted answers.</p><p> </p><p>"I could ask you the same question." His voice scratched up his throat, gritty and cracking at the end and Five's lip curled. His stomach growled at him. And while he was half a breath away from blinking away, he knew he wouldn't get far. Perhaps he wouldn't get anywhere at all.</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, it seemed that forgoing eating had left him weak...</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't slept in days, and while his body cried out for sustenance to fuel him, or at least a one hour nap, Five couldn't be bothered to do so. There was too much at stake to spend half an hour checking and rechecking and doing painstakingly stupid calculations, and both sleeping and eating held too much risk for him. The Commission had eyes and ears everywhere...</p><p> </p><p>Allison shrugged. "Got thirsty." She held up the still-full glass for good measure.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Five pulled away from the fridge, back-stepping until his fingers brushed against a wall. He kept his eyes locked on Allison. Allison, who was never awake. Allison, who looked at him with just as much suspicion as he did her. Allison, who was setting her full glass down without taking a single goddamn sip and that was it. That was all he needed to know.</p><p> </p><p>He could see it in her. </p><p> </p><p>The Commission had gotten to her, hadn't they? The Handler had made Allison her own, just as she had done to him years ago. What was going to happen next? Was she going to take him down? Was this it? Was there anything he <em>could do </em>to preserve his little sister's life?</p><p> </p><p>There was <em> always </em> something under the surface and <em>goddamnit</em> Allison was it. She was the thing under the surface, wasn't she? Just as that twinkie had tricked him and just as the Handler had lied, Allison was one of them, wasn't she? She was sizing him up, seeing if she could take him down?</p><p> </p><p>Five blanched.</p><p> </p><p>Allison was still staring at him, though with more concern than anything else dipping her brow. She took a step closer. "Five?"</p><p> </p><p>He jerked back.</p><p> </p><p>Allison kept her voice smooth. Always smooth, always calculated: she <em>would</em> make a good agent. "Five? Are you o--?"</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing down here?" It was a question, but he couldn't keep the bite out of his words. He sounded like a paranoid old man, even to his own ears, but <em> with good reason.</em></p><p> </p><p>Always with good reason. That was what Dolores had told him. She would say that he was scared, that he was skittish, but <em> always </em> with good reason. Because any food could be poisoned just as any person could be toxic. But while Five could vomit up food, he couldn't vomit up <em> people.</em></p><p> </p><p>Any person could be a threat. Just as any food could be.</p><p> </p><p>The Handler was.</p><p> </p><p>His "friends" at the Commission were.</p><p> </p><p>Their father was.</p><p> </p><p>And now, Allison could be...</p><p> </p><p>She could be there to <em> kill him </em> . All innocent, all casual, just like that <em> goddamn </em> twinkie that had nearly killed him forty years ago.</p><p> </p><p>Allison frowned as she took him in. She wouldn't stop blinking. Why? Why was she <em> blinking </em> so much? Five held his breath. Rapid blinking could mean fear, aggression, confusion, perplexity. It could mean anything. He couldn't figure out what but he needed to <em> know </em> so Five spit out, "You're blinking too much. <em> Why? </em>"</p><p> </p><p>He regretted it instantly. Five should have kept his mouth shut, should have <em> observed </em> rather than intervene because now Allison was going to be onto him. She was going to know that he knew something was happening. And a slipping composure was a sign of vulnerability, and vulnerability was weakness, and weakness--</p><p> </p><p>"I'm <em>tired</em>, Five." Allison swallowed a yawn. "Why are <em> you </em> acting all... <em> tense? </em>"</p><p> </p><p>Allison took another step closer.</p><p> </p><p>He was already flat against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>Five needed to <em>get out.</em></p><p> </p><p>He pulled at his powers. Fuzziness blurred his fingertips. Blue light illuminated Allison's widening eyes.</p><p> </p><p>She threw her hands up. "Woah, woah, okay, I'm sorry." Taking one step back, then another, she said, "I...I just wanted to check on you. You're really pale, Five--"</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing here, Allison?" Five repeated, bearing his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head fast. "What? I was--...Look, I heard someone down here and it's been days since I've even seen you in the kitchen to eat so I...Five, are you okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Her backtracking steps continued until she was leaning up against the countertop once more. Allison never lowered her hands. He kept his eyes locked on her. Commission agents were good at what they did, good at lying.</p><p> </p><p>But Allison <em>wasn't </em>Commission. She was a mother, his sister...</p><p> </p><p>Allison softened her voice as she whispered, "Five?" Her head cocked to the side as her eyebrows displayed her discomfort. She seemed as if she were in pain just by looking at him. "Can I help? At all?"</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't realized how tense he was until now. Five sighed through his clenched teeth. He grimaced at the pull in his jaw, at the soreness in his tightened muscles. Forcing himself to relax came with a deep breath, then another.</p><p> </p><p>"Did I interrupt you?" Allison nodded towards the fridge. "I...I can leave, if you want?"</p><p> </p><p>Five blinked.</p><p> </p><p>He had forgotten the whole reason he had come into the kitchen. After blacking out temporarily whilst writing his equations, Five had figured it would be best to cave and just eat something. <em> Anything. </em> But then he remembered the past, and with remembering came the sour taste of mold and puke on his tongue and he was no longer ready to give in. He would rather just get a tap of nutrients from Grace than put something in his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Allison pulled him back to the present with a gentle, "Want me to cook something for you?"</p><p> </p><p>Five gulped excess saliva. His stomach growled painfully. "No."</p><p> </p><p>"You sure?" Allison picked up the full glass. She took a sip. "I could make, like, grilled cheese?"</p><p> </p><p><em> Grilled cheese? </em> Five scoffed. Bread and dairy; two nightmares in one sitting. The bread could have mold, so she would need to not only check around the edges for greying or green fuzzies, but also the entire loaf. It would need to be smelled, and if there were any signs of spores, the whole thing would need to be tossed. Because bread was porous, and so the mold could travel up into the entire loaf without showing signs. And then there was the <em> goddamn cheese-- </em></p><p> </p><p>"Or not." Allison held up her hands again. She continued to hold the glass. "Maybe, eggs? Or just some toast?"</p><p> </p><p>"No." Five heaved himself off the wall with a grunt. His legs rattled under him. Slowly, he drifted to a nearby kitchen table chair and leaned against it. "I'm fine."</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes narrowed. After a beat, her expression smoothed into neutrality as she said, "Well, <em>I'm </em>going to make some black beans." Allison put her back to him and opened up a cabinet. Pulling out a jar of black beans, she flipped to face him. "Have a bowl with me?"</p><p> </p><p>Beans...</p><p> </p><p>They were decently packed with calories, were high in fiber and fat and, unlike most foods, black beans  seemed to mold at a slower rate. Their expiration date lasted long enough that he wouldn't need to worry about it being too close, and they were practically non-perishable.</p><p> </p><p>Five swallowed more spit.</p><p> </p><p>He was <em>so fucking hungry.</em> And just the thought of eating had his mouth watering like a dog's.</p><p> </p><p>Tentatively, he took a step forward. "Fine." Five smoothed his shoulders out of their stiffness and raised his chin to her. "Here." He held out his hand.</p><p> </p><p>Allison, instead, turned her back to him once again. She yanked open a drawer and pulled out an archaic-looking can opener. With one solid pop and a few twists of the gears, the lid snapped off and she tossed it into the trash. "I got it. Just sit."</p><p> </p><p>Five rolled his eyes. "I don't need you to spoon feed me…"</p><p> </p><p>Her eyebrow flew up. "I was...going to heat it up? Maybe add some spices?"</p><p> </p><p>Five shifted on his feet.</p><p> </p><p>He honestly hadn't thought about actually heating up the food. Usually he just choked down whatever had been edible. Even having food the Handler had prepared for him felt foreign, because she had platters and multiple spoons whereas Five was raised with sticks and stones and fingers to eat off of...</p><p> </p><p>"You don't need to do that…" He hoped his even tone covered his tracks. "I...I can just make it myself."</p><p> </p><p>"Were you going to eat this <em>cold? </em>" Allison's face tightened up. She crossed the room, gathered a pot, and poured the contents of the can inside. At the stove, the burner ticked before a quiet blue flame lit the gas.</p><p> </p><p>Five sagged heavier against the back of the chair. "Cooking is a waste of time."</p><p> </p><p>Allison shrugged. "Well, <em> I </em> like my beans with <em> flavor </em>, thank you very much." She nodded to the kitchen table. "Now, sit. Before you keel over."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm <em> fine </em>." Five growled.</p><p> </p><p>She winked at him. "Sit."</p><p> </p><p>He wasn't sure what made him agree. Perhaps he had just been so tired that his brain had moved on autopilot because, before his thoughts could catch up with him to snark at her, he had found himself slouched in the chair, a bowl of hot beans before him.</p><p> </p><p>She was seated across from him. "You with me again?" Her spoon mixed her beans with the various spices and cheese she had put inside.</p><p> </p><p>Five cursed under his breath.</p><p> </p><p>He lost time again. Blacked out. From something as stupid as hunger...</p><p> </p><p>"How..." Scrubbing a hand over his face, Five mumbled, "How long was I...zoning out?" He was hoping that was all he was doing. Just zoning out and staring at nothing. That was infinitely better than embarrassing himself by laying his head on the table, or collapsing.</p><p> </p><p>Allison lowered her cheek to her palm. "About ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? The beans got to cool down a bit..."</p><p> </p><p>Right. That's why he was here in the first place. To eat. To avoid blacking out <em>yet again.</em></p><p> </p><p>Five glanced down.</p><p> </p><p>There wasn't much inside - an inch or so - covered by a pinch of some kind of white shredded cheese, and dusted with red powder and herbs. Five wasn't sure what any of it was, but he didn't want to find out. Herbs were disgusting and at danger of being moldy. And the powder looked eerily similar to something the Handler had given him years ago "for the sake of training".</p><p> </p><p>"Just touch it to your tongue," She had said, guiding his brick-tinged fingerpad up to his lips. "It's quite strong…"</p><p> </p><p>It had been poison. Five had never found out what kind, but it had almost killed him. Apparently it had given him a seizure, though he couldn't recall a single moment of it.</p><p> </p><p>And then there was the <em> goddamn cheese.</em></p><p> </p><p>Five dipped his spoon around the additions on top, scooping out a few black beans. They were warm on his tongue but not unbearably so, and somehow, Allison had managed to make them incredibly flavorful despite his obvious avoidance of the spices. They were savory and brought a bit of a kick to the table. Five relished in the taste. It was fleeting, and before he could think to eat slow - just in case it was poisoned - he was going for another spoonful. He dodged the cheese and scooted the spices to the other side of the bowl as he silently ate.</p><p> </p><p>His gut clenched painfully, devouring what little bit he had eaten. It begged for more.</p><p> </p><p>"Is it okay?" Allison asked.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't set his spoon down. Five nodded curtly. "It's good."</p><p> </p><p>"Good." Her smile was hidden by another bite.</p><p> </p><p>By the time she had finished her portion, Five had managed half of his bowl before he ultimately felt like throwing up. It had been his fault: he had thought of the food of the apocalypse. After that, he had set himself to playing with his food rather than eating it. All the while, Allison said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>With food in his system, clarity washed over him. He was thankful he hadn't spewed his paranoia, because he would have been mortified to know he had openly accused Allison of being Commission. He was equally as grateful for Allison's choice to simply let him be. They had sat in silence, and Five didn't see the safety in that until they had stopped eating.</p><p> </p><p>Until Allison had said, "Look, Five, I want to talk."</p><p> </p><p>His heart dropped to his squeezing stomach. He swallowed back vomit. As casually as he could, Five said, "About what?"</p><p> </p><p>"You." Allison pushed her bowl aside and leaned in.</p><p> </p><p>Five pulled back. He folded his arms across his chest. "I don't have time for a heart-to-heart, Allison.</p><p> </p><p>"Give me five minutes." She didn't wait for him to agree. "Look, it's just that we're all concerned, okay? And I get it, you had a hard time in the apocalypse. But you're home, now, and we can help you. Okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Five turned away. His smile was disgustingly bitter. "I don't <em>need</em> your help, Allison. I've done things you couldn't even <em>imagine.</em>"</p><p> </p><p>"So?" she asked. "What does that have to do with getting help?"</p><p> </p><p>Five sucked his lip between his teeth and chewed. He shoved his hands into his pockets. The equation for blinking upstairs flashed in his mind.</p><p> </p><p>Allison continued, "We're all here for you, Five. <em>I'm </em>here for you. Even if it's just to make a bowl of black beans..."</p><p> </p><p>He glanced over at her.</p><p> </p><p>All he saw was sincerity.</p><p> </p><p>Five bowed his head. Before she could say anything more, the kitchen warped and he stumbled to his feet in his bedroom. The calculations on his wall greeted him in the shallow darkness, illuminated by the streets outside. Five looked up at them, then around, down, glaring at the mocking equations that he had yet to solve.</p><p> </p><p>With his stomach full, Five could feel exhaustion beginning to make itself known.</p><p> </p><p>Five plucked his chalk off the nightstand. He flipped it over in his hand, contemplating its weight, its size, its significance in saving the world. The tiny, mostly-used piece of white chalk was going to aid in saving the world.</p><p> </p><p>Just as that half-bowl of black beans was.</p><p> </p><p>Just as he was.</p><p> </p><p>Just as Allison was, too.</p><p> </p><p>Five set the chalk down and blinked to the kitchen. Allison startled, her hands sparkling with soap suds and water in the dim light. "<em>Jesus, </em>Five! You--!"</p><p> </p><p>"I'll take you up on that." he interrupted.</p><p> </p><p>Allison faced him further, the question already on her lips.</p><p> </p><p>Five raised his head a bit and asked, "You know any good recipes?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Would you look at that. It's me, back at it again with "holy shit Five's life <i>sucked</i> lmao" oh boy. Anyhoo, thanks for reading. It's been the bomb dot com.</p><p>All mistakes are just that. My bad. Ignore them.</p><p>Check out my <a href="https://itty-bitty-rampaging-committee.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> if you want like gifs. That's all it is. I make gifs of whatever I want or whatever you guys want. It's a blast and I'd love to have you. Also, if anyone could tell me, I'd like to know whether I should post whumptober fics to Tumblr as well as to AO3. Because I'm doing whumptober again this year, and while I usually only post to AO3, maybe this time I should branch out to Tumblr as well? Ehhhhh I'm indecisive.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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